An old friend, who hadn’t reached out after two cold years, had actually texted me last week unexpectedly to check on me. Coming from him, it’s always been unexpected. And how was I doing? Well, not too good. But I didn’t tell him. Instead it was the usual: Oh, things are great. All I wrote was confirmation that what another friend I hadn’t talked to in years had said about me was true: that I’d gotten tired of LA and moved to Palm Springs in February.
Life is a whore, he wrote.
I didn’t argue against that. In all honesty, my heart leaped in surprise to hear from him. All that time, he’d written me off like most old friends had done. That’s how friendships work. People grow apart.
He’d written to me that another friend of ours, a woman whom I hadn’t thought about since probably 2007(?), had married a gay man, which didn’t make sense, but okay. For some reason, he’d brought her up.
In the summer, he’d announced on social media that his apartment had burned down, but he didn’t mention that to me in the text. All his fans, since he’s a quasi-celebrity, had written their condolences to him in the comments. I never wrote a thing. Like I said, he’d written me off, so we weren’t on the level of communication. But an inkling was still there that he would write to me at some point.
Well, he did. This week, he presented me with an opportunity after he’d been given money to open up a business. One of the arms of the business, as he called it, was publishing. He’s been looking for writers to send him short stories for a sci-fi/horror anthology. If my stories were good enough, he could make a collection of my own, and he would pass them on to an editor to polish them up.
When it comes to opportunity, I jump with joy, but also my nerves catch on fire. What if I can’t produce up to his standards? The pressure tightened around my throat. I even started to panic. That was Thursday night after the football game when I heard from him.
The next morning, I wrote him back before the sun rose and congratulated him. How cool it was that he’d been given that opportunity. I thanked him for reaching out to me. Even though horror and sci-fi aren’t in my wheelhouse, I said fuck it. I would give it a shot. If it sucked, he would let me know, and we would look for ways to improve it. What have I got to lose except more hope? You know what they say about expectations. Actually, I don’t know. What do they say? All I know is expectations are a real bitch. They get me in trouble and usually end in colossal disappointments. I expect the world out of my fortunes, and more often than not, they turn to shit in comparison.
He shared the titles of some of the stories he’d conceptualized. They sounded like Flaming Lips albums. If you’re familiar with that band, you would know one of their albums is called Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots. I was filled with doubt after reading the ones he’d sent me. How could I accomplish writing anything near his standards with such epic titles? But again, what do I have to lose except hope?